


Tuesday Drabbles - Prompt Table Words

by methylviolet10b



Series: Tuesday Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For over a year now, I've been writing five ACD-verse drabbles every Tuesday, and posting the results every Tuesday. I started with the Second Prompts Table on Watson's Woes, and moved on to reader-supplied words after I finished the original table. Some of these drabbles evolved into their own stories; some relate to others; but most just stand alone as 100-word stories. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1\. Desperate**

Keeping Holmes’ mind occupied is a challenge enough in everyday circumstances. Often, all of London isn’t sufficient to the task. When a badly-sprained ankle kept him laid up for a week, I found myself stretched to the uttermost. I read to him, asked him about old cases, and listened to him play the violin for hours on end. I even asked Lestrade around to give Holmes all the latest gossip from the Yard. Anything, even the risk of his getting involved too soon with yet another problem, was better than him resorting to the desperate refuge of his Moroccan case.

 

**2\. Angry**

My dear friend is often irritable with any intelligence inferior to his own. He snaps and says regrettable things, but he is not truly roused. His anger is a much rarer emotion, infrequently seen or expressed. Unleashed, it can cow the most hardened criminal or arrogant lord. It does not, however, intimidate me. My friend attributes this to my experiences as a soldier. The true reason is rather different. The first time I ever saw his anger – when he pulled me shivering and half-conscious from the icehouse where I had been trapped – I recognized the fear that fueled his fury.

 

**3\. Exhausted**

There is much about my Watson that I still do not understand, even after many years in his company. Why such a good-natured, sociable, orderly fellow should tolerate the company of such an anti-social, cynical, and irregular creature as myself is a mystery I think I shall never solve. I could almost understand it when he was still ill and friendless, but that time has long since passed. Despite the aggravations I regularly inflict on the poor fellow, he has stayed at my side through thick and thin, year after year. I have never yet exhausted my friend’s inexplicable loyalty.

 

**4\. Uneasy**

Ten minutes after we were supposed to meet, I grew uneasy. My Watson is a punctual man.

Twenty minutes after we were supposed to meet, I grew worried. The distance was not that great. He’d had time to make our rendezvous even with a late start in this foul weather. And if something had delayed him, surely he would have sent word. But I hesitated. My friend is perfectly capable. And he is a proud man.

Half an hour after we were supposed to meet, I set out to find him. His pride be damned – he might need my help.

 

**5\. Alone**

A man cannot live by detection alone.

A man cannot live by music alone.

A man cannot live by chemical analysis alone.

(A man cannot live on chemicals alone, either, as much as I might prefer otherwise.)

A man cannot live entirely to and for himself, alone.

A man cannot live within his own thoughts, alone.

I am renowned for my observational powers, and yet I admit that I did not discover these things on my own.

It took the financial necessity of finding a fellow-lodger to remind me how much better my life was when I was not alone.


	2. 1/25/2011

**6\. Bleeding**

Blood is an inescapable part of our lives. Criminology and medicine are both dyed in crimson. And blood has tied us together from the beginning. Holmes discovered a new test for bloodstains the day we met, and his much-pricked fingertips left a stain on my cuff when we shook hands. I have seen his blood several times. It is never pleasant, but he always makes light of it.

Seeing his white face as he presses his handkerchief to the knife-gash on my arm, I realize that blood is quite a different matter to him when I am the one bleeding.

 

**7\. Haunted**

As a lad, I loved ghost stories. I hoped one day to see a specter.

I never expected to be haunted.

But I am. My days are all marked irretrievably by the phantoms of the past.

On wet days, my shoulder burns with the heat of Afghanistan. My leg stabs me as cruelly as any kukri could.

On sunny days, I shy away from fair-haired young matrons with perambulators in the park.

On misty days, I can scarcely hear over the roar of waterfalls in my mind.

It is very hard to live when you are drowning in your dead.

 

**8\. Helpless**

He’s restless again tonight. I can hear him shifting about in his bed, the creak of the springs. He moans, and I cannot remain still. I creep up the stairs, turn the knob, and step into his room.

Lost in his dreams, he does not hear me as I move to his bedside. For all my deductive powers, I cannot fathom which horrors torment him tonight. Afghanistan? His dead?

Me?

I lightly touch one outflung hand. He does not wake, but his body stills, his unconscious shivering eases.

Perhaps I am not entirely helpless in the war for Watson’s peace.

 

**9\. Dark**

“Ow! That was my nose!”

“Sorry, Watson, but if you will insist on moving about…”

“You asked me to!”

“Well, yes, but out of my way, not into it!”

“As if I could tell! It’s pitch-black out!”

“Where _is_ the blasted thing? I left it _right here_!”

“Obviously not, or it would _be_ here.”

“Oh, brilliant deduction, my dear Watson. You scintillate tonight. Would that we could use your wit to see by. A very small, dim candle, but…”

“ _What_? Holmes, I might not be the genius in this partnership, but _I_ wasn’t the one who mislaid the dark lantern.”

 

 **10.** **Trapped**

It was the cold that woke me. Terrible, aching chill that set my old wound ablaze. I opened my eyes, only to find myself in blackness. I could see nothing. Was I blind?

I fumbled in my jacket pocket for my matches, trying to ignore the throbbing in my shoulder and the painful pounding in my head. The light from the match reassured me about my vision, even as it illuminated the depth of my predicament. I found and tried the door, but as I feared, the six-inch oak was barred from the outside.

I was trapped in the icehouse.

 


	3. 2/1/2011

**11\. Terrified**

Smugglers are one of the criminal classes who routinely go armed, and are more likely than most to carry guns. This particular group was no exception. Thanks to a failure of the local police, Watson and I found ourselves on our own, facing six of them.

Six guns to our two, and scant cover. I’m sure they thought we were easy prey. They did not reckon on Watson and his remarkable accuracy under fire.

Staring down the barrel of Watson’s gun, his fellows bleeding and moaning on the ground around him, the smugglers’ leader had good reason to look terrified.

 

**12\. Sick**

A scant hour after finally lying down to rest, I woke to knocking on my bedroom door and a terrible headache. I drew breath to answer, only to feel an alarming tightness in my chest.

Holmes strode in without waiting for me to respond. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, my dear fellow, but a most interesting client has arrived…” He broke off as he truly looked at me. “Watson?” His eyes widened in alarm.

I realized that Holmes, for all his deductive powers, had never foreseen that my long hours tending the sick might render me a victim.

 

**13\. Loathsome**

Professor James Moriarty was the most dangerous man in London. It was one of the many facts I catalogued about the man.

He was brilliant. Easily my intellectual equal in many ways. My superior in some, and my inferior in almost none save morality. For cool observation and ruthless decision, he even surpassed my brother Mycroft.

He was a villain, but with his own twisted sense of honor. For all his evil, I never applied the word _loathsome_ to the Professor until he sidled his head with malevolent gentility and calmly named Watson as another potential victim of our feud.

 

**14\. Freezing**

“I must say, Holmes, that this was not one of your better ideas.”

“Nonsense, Watson! The ruse worked brilliantly.”

“Except for the fact that we’re now stranded on the wrong side of London, in full dress clothes, and locked in a boat shed.”

“But they never noticed us, and now we know where they’ve been storing the goods.”

“That’s lovely, except for one minor thing. We’re _locked in_ , Holmes.”

“Not for long, my dear fellow. This door is hardly a challenge, even without my usual tools.”

“Then please get on with it. I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing.”

 

**15\. Burning**

It was all darkness and confusion. There was no time to think, only react.

“Holmes!” I shouted for him instinctively, even knowing it was futile. I felt desperate to find him in the chaotic madness, to know that he was all right. Only shouts and screams echoed in my ears. Acrid fumes scorched my nostrils, and I stumbled, struggling to reach the nearby wall.

Suddenly I felt a burning pain rip through me, tearing across my old wound, wrenching every muscle in my body with utter agony. Blackness crashed down on me like a hammer and I knew no more.


	4. 2/8/2011

**16\. Lonely**

I felt no guilt in abandoning Watson to his lonely vigil. I knew he expected me, but my purposes were far better served with him watching Austin while I attended to other matters. The hour and the crowd argued against Austin attempting anything, and Watson’s vigilance would ensure it. In the meantime, I was free to search for evidence that would link Austin to the murders.

Besides which, the violinist in the quartet was _terrible_. Watson could stand the din better than I.

My satisfaction vanished when I felt the floor shudder underneath me and heard a loud, distant explosion.

 

**17\. Heroic**

“My, my,” Holmes murmured as he turned the pages of Lady Alice’s diary. “She has kept quite the catalog of her past and potential victims and their…er, assets.”

“Oh?” I continued my search, listening with half an ear.

“Yes. One is merely ‘raven-haired, wealthy.’ Another lists all his attributes, and I do mean _all_." He checked briefly, then continued. “Here’s another: ‘Moderately successful professional. Kind and good-natured, loyal. Chiseled features, thick brown locks, heroic face, brilliant eyes, sun-bronzed skin…’”

“Good Lord. Which poor fellow do we need to warn?”

Holmes looked at me strangely. “My dear Watson, she means _you_.”

 

**18\. Guilty**

“Tea-time, gentlemen,” Mrs. Hudson called out as she came through the door, bearing a shining silver tray.

“Thank you,” I told her sincerely, but my courtesy was marred by the concerned look I gave Holmes. The man simply huddled down further in his armchair. In his black mood, he would likely refuse all food. Again.

A delicious, warm scent filled the room as our landlady lifted a cover. Holmes sat up straighter and turned his head. I hid a smile behind my hand. I knew as well as Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had a guilty weakness for her lavender shortbread.

 

**19\. Crippled**

His leg ached on damp, chilly days. It slowed him on long chases. After too much strain, it rendered him nearly immobile with cramped agony.

His shoulder hurt him _all the time_. Mostly it was just a low-level pain, a constant reminder of the bullet that had shattered his bones and ended his Army career. Sometimes, when the weather changed, or when he’d carried his bag for too many hours, the pain blazed hotter than the Afghani desert.

But for all his old wounds, John Watson had never truly felt crippled until the day he badly sprained his writing hand.

 

**20\. Missing**

The electric lights were gone. His oil lantern illuminated brief glimpses of hellish panic. He could feel tremors underfoot, the death-throes growing stronger.

There was no sign of Watson.

Holmes hesitated at the juncture. The closest way lay escape, where hopefully Watson already awaited him. The other led straight to the heart of peril and probable death. And the salon where he’d sent Watson.

Snarling, Holmes plunged into the darkness. He’d be damned, truly, if he saw John Watson’s name on a list of missing and presumed lost. It would either be neither of their names so listed, or both.

 


	5. 2/15/2011

**21\. Motionless**

At first glance, the salon appeared deserted. I raised my lantern high, trying to pierce the increasingly acrid gloom. “Watson?”

There was no answer. The floor beneath me tilted again, its angle increasing fractionally. I knew the time left to escape was rapidly running out.

Something – I do not know what – caused me to venture further into the room, rather than turn and make my way upwards. The light from my lantern glinted off of polished wood floor, various scattered belongings, a tangled wreck of metal, a shoe…

_Watson’s shoe!_

I ran to the motionless form of my fallen friend.

 

**22\. Filthy**

“I beg yer pardon, sir!” The filthy sailor who had just collided with me snatched his cap off of his head and bobbed in apology. “I’m none so steady on land, I’m afeared.”

“That’s quite all right. There’s no harm done,” I reassured him.

The man backed away, still mumbling apologies. I started to continue on my errand, but a sudden suspicion made me check my pockets.

My wallet and pocketwatch were both still in place, but something new crackled against my questing hand. Bemused, I pulled out a note that had not been there when I left Baker Street.

 

**23\. Demented**

The note, scribbled in pencil on a bit of butcher’s paper, was terse and to the point:

Watson – Return to Baker Street at once. I will be with you as soon as I can. Keep your revolver with you at all times. – SH.

I recognized the handwriting immediately, as well as the warning it contained. I surreptitiously glanced around for any sign of the sailor, but he had long since vanished. Holmes himself, or a confederate? It hardly mattered. Remembering the demented gleam in the eyes of our quarry, I lost no time in hastening homewards and fetching my gun.

 

**24\. Bitter**

A quiet knock sounded at my door, followed immediately by Holmes. “You did not come down for tea,” he observed.

“I’m a bit tired,” I hedged.

“And your leg pains you. I deduced as much.” He held out a cup. “So I brought tea to you.”

Touched, I drank it – despite it having sat in the pot for so long as to be unspeakably bitter, even with the two sugars and milk he had thoughtfully added. The consideration behind his unusual gesture, and the pleasure of his company, more than made up for the lingering aftertaste of overly stewed tea.

 

**25\. Unconscious**

There was blood on my friend’s brow, and more soaking the shoulder of his frock coat. The fallen chandelier had pierced his bad shoulder – how deeply, I could not tell. In the wavering light of my lantern, he looked terribly pale. I could not see him breathing.

“Watson?” I fumbled at his throat, trying to feel beneath cravat and collar for a pulse. Thankfully I found one almost at once. Unconscious, then, not dead, thank God!

Alive, but injured, and we were both in mortal peril. I had to get him free and out of here as quickly as possible.

 

 


	6. 2/22/2011

**26\. Plead**

“Absolutely not!”

“My dear Watson, I don’t understand you. It’s perfect!”

“No, Holmes!”

“Would you rather risk what might happen to an unknowing, unprepared victim?”

“Of course not, but there must be another way!”

“I cannot think of one. I would offer to do it myself, but I manifestly lack the, er, necessary appeal.”

“That’s ridiculous. You are far better suited. And I have seen you charm everyone from kings to scullery maids.”

“But you’re the one whose name appeared…”

“I said no! Plead, beg, even grovel, I shall not change my mind. I will not flirt with Lady Alice!”

 

**27\. Flee**

My attempts to remove the wrought iron from Watson’s flesh worsened the bleeding, but also roused my friend from his unconscious stupor. A low groan alerted me, and I heaved the chandelier aside before kneeling by his side.

Watson’s eyes were dazed and dimmed with pain, but he recognized me. “Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson. Can you stand?” I hated to ask it of him, but I had little choice.

“I…can try.” I helped lever him to his feet. He swayed and leaned heavily on my arm. “What…happened?”

“I believe the boiler exploded. I _know_ we’re sinking. We must flee at once.”

 

**28\. Hide**

I tugged nervously on one edge of my sleeve. I didn’t dare get out my pocketwatch. Not only would it give the lie to my charade, but I would probably break it with my anxious fidgeting.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” I said at once, and tried my best to smile. “I just…” I could feel my cheeks heating as I struggled to find words. “I just don’t like the fit of this jacket, I’m afraid.”

“But it suits you very well,” Lady Alice purred, eyeing me appreciatively. I struggled against the urge to run and hide.

 

**29\. Sleep**

The train carriage rocked along the tracks. When the rhythm changed, I glanced up from my journal. From the look of the darkening landscape outside of the carriage window, the train was approaching a station.

I sighed and replaced my journal in my bag before turning my attention to my companion. Holmes was huddled down on his seat, his chin sunk upon his chest, dark shadows like bruises under his eyes. I had rarely seen my friend in more desperate need of sleep, and I hated to disturb him.

Reluctantly, I touched him lightly on one shoulder. “Holmes, we’re here.”

 

**30\. Wonder**

Holmes and wonder go hand in hand.

I wonder about his past history, his family, his life in the days before we met. He speaks of these things so rarely, the omission sparks questions.

I wonder at his abrupt ways, his Bohemian manners, his black moods, and occasionally smart under all of them.

I wonder at the bright intelligence, keen eyes, and complex mind that set him so far above other men.

(I occasionally wonder how someone so intelligent can be so _stupid_ about his health.)

I no longer wonder about his friendship and loyalty. I know I have them.

 


	7. 3/1/2011

 

**31\. Clutch**

I glanced around the ballroom again. My friend is a master of remaining unseen, but I could not help but worry.

A rustle of skirts brought my attention back to my companion. “It is a lovely party, although it is rather warm,” I said mendaciously. “May I fetch you a glass of champagne?”

“I am a little lightheaded,” Lady Alice murmured. “But I do not think champagne would help. Perhaps a turn around the garden?”

“My dear lady, I will be the envy of every man here,” I lied, and suppressed a shudder at her possessive clutch on my arm.

 

**32\. Break**

Lady Alice’s interest in my friend was something of a surprise to me. My Watson’s innumerable charms have won many hearts over the years, but his finances are modest at best compared to Lady Alice’s prior targets, even after inheriting his uncle’s small estate a few months ago. I briefly wondered whether Lady Alice was misinformed as to the amount, or whether Watson’s natural attractions had temporarily overridden her usual greed.

Her interest in him was a welcome break in the case. Nonetheless, I felt rather uneasy as I watched her circle the ballroom, showing him off like a toy.

 

**33\. Destroy**

“You do realize that we’re in a great deal of trouble.”

“Oh come now, Watson. Your tendency towards exaggeration is regrettable.”

“I am not exaggerating. We’re in for it. Or rather, _you’re_ in for it, and I’m likely to suffer by association.”

“It’s so nice to know I have your unwavering loyalty in times of crisis.”

“Please leave off the sarcasm, Holmes. You know what Mrs. Hudson said she’d do if you managed to destroy another of her teapots.”

“Hm, yes. You do have a point. … What do you suggest?”

“Flowers, profuse apologies, and several replacement teapots.”

“Several?”

“Yes!”

 

**34\. Storm**

The unseasonable summer storm lashed rain against the windows, rattling them in their frames. Watson drew the curtains closed with a sigh. “There’s no sign of it stopping. I’m sure they’ve cancelled the garden concert.”

“If they haven’t, they’re fools,” Holmes agreed from where he sat curled up in his armchair. He sounded unconcerned, but his sharp eyes did not miss the dejected slump of Watson’s shoulders, or the pained caution in his movements. “Never mind, dear fellow. There will be other concerts.”

“I suppose.” Watson replied listlessly.

“Tonight.”

“Eh?”

Holmes flourished his violin. “What would you care to hear?”

 

**35\. Leap**

I could feel every tremor that shook Watson’s frame as I half-supported, half-carried him up the stairs and out onto the deck. His breath came in short gasps as he fought the effects of shock and blood loss.

The scene that met our eyes was horrible beyond description. Men and women, dressed for a pleasant evening’s journey to Gravesend, jammed up against every rail, shouting and weeping. Many heads already bobbed in the water below. Even as I watched, more people made the desperate leap into the Thames.

Our only choices: jump and try to swim, or sink and die.


	8. 3/8/2011

 

**36a. Scream**

The water was only summer-cool, not cold, but the Thames is foul in any season. The shock of plunging into it partially jolted me out of my dazed state. I fought my way to the surface, ignoring the agony of my injured shoulder in my near-panic.

“Watson!” I heard Holmes’ voice as soon as my head broke the surface. I blinked water out of my eyes and spotted him swimming towards me.

A scream jerked my attention upwards. A woman clutched her shrieking child to her breast as she leaped from the sinking ship and plunged downwards, straight onto Holmes.

 

**36b. Scream**

Over the years of acting as biographer to my friend Sherlock Holmes, I have chronicled many of his traits. I have praised his intelligence, his courage, and his keen faculties. I have broadcast his disdain of convention, class, and rank.

But my stories are a limited portrait. I have not shared many other interesting details, such as his tendency to sing off-key in the bath, or that he giggles when reading the paper, or that he can scream like a frightened child when startled by bats.

No, I keep these details to myself…even when his behavior positively _demands_ fuller disclosure.

 

**37\. Fall**

Somehow we managed to work through the panicked crowd to the nearest railing. Watson swayed, near to collapse, but my friend managed to remain conscious somehow. Out on the river, I could see the lights of several craft heading in our direction, rushing to assist our stricken ship and rescue those already adrift in the Thames. We could not wait. I helped Watson climb over the side of our increasingly listing vessel.

His tenuous balance failed, and I could not stop his fall. All I could do was jump in after him, and hope to find Watson before he drowned.

 

**38\. Slander**

“Watson, what is the meaning of this?”

“Are you reading my papers, Holmes?”

“You left them on the top of your desk. I could not _help_ but read them.”

“You certainly could have. You had no business there.”

“That’s irrelevant. ‘He giggles when reading the paper?’ I scream when startled by bats? You’re either insane or deluded. You certainly cannot mean to publish any of this!”

“My editor is demanding more stories, you know. I thought I would try something different.”

“It’s utter nonsense verging on libel! It’s slanderous!”

“My dear Holmes, it is only slander if it’s not true.”

 

**39\. Bind**

It was a financial bind that led me to seek cheaper lodgings, or a fellow lodger to help defray expenses. In those long-ago days, I never dreamed that I would find more than temporary fiscal relief when conniving at the arrangement.

How very wrong I was.

It is true that I have never gotten his limits. It is also true that I have often used him badly, sometimes without ever intending to. Should I ever manage to drive him away, I would be in a bind indeed, for he has long since passed from convenience to companion, partner, and necessity.

 

**40\. Accuse**

“My dear sir, I have no idea what you mean to accuse me of, but I assure you that I am innocent of it.”

“Innocent is the last word I should use in your position, Lady Alice. I have proof of your utter lack of that quality in my keeping.”

“Hardly proof.”

“Damning enough. It is written in your own hand.”

“Undoubtedly a forgery.”

“Indisputably not.”

“Fiction, then. I’m very whimsical.”

“Your subjects won’t think so.”

“Damn you for your interference! It was none of your concern. What do you intend now?”

“That depends. _What have you done with Watson?_ ”

 


	9. 3/15/2011

 

**41\. Experiment**

After hastily opening every window in the sitting room, Holmes and I staggered out to the landing, coughing and trying not to retch.

“My dear fellow, I do apologize,” Holmes croaked as soon as he was able to speak. “That was not meant to happen.”

“What was that?” I coughed, my eyes streaming.

“A…failed experiment.” Some unspoken emotion clenched Holmes’ jaw.

“That’s putting it mildly. How long do you think it will take to clear?”

“Judging from the breeze, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes.”

I shivered, and not just from the draft. “Then let’s hope something delays Mrs. Hudson’s return.”

 

**42\. Shiver**

I swiftly lost track of time in the utter blackness. I could have lit one of my matches to check my pocket-watch, but knowing the time could not help me escape. Until I thought of something that might, I would save the few that remained.

I tried to keep my mind occupied as I repeatedly banged my walking-stick against the ice-house door, but it was difficult. I could not see myself shiver in the darkness, but I could feel the uncontrollable spasms in every joint and limb.

That was good. The real danger would come if – when – I _stopped_ shivering.

 

**43\. Attack**

All the signs were present. The wrinkled dressing gown, the listless pose, the nervous twitching of those long fingers, the brooding frown, the set of his jaw: all of these things spelled out a clear warning.

I briefly considered retiring to my room, but it was far too cold to remain there for long. I could go out to my club, but the same icy temperatures that rendered my room nigh-uninhabitable made the roads treacherous and my old wounds ache fiercely.

Something I did attracted his attention, and his eyes fixed on me. I braced myself to meet the attack.

 

**44\. Stumble**

“Are you feeling better?” I asked. The garden was not well lit, and it was difficult to see Lady Alice’s expression.

“The air is refreshing, but I am a trifle tired.” She let go of my arm and sat down on a convenient bench.

A shove from behind caused me to stumble. Before I could recover, I found myself seized from both sides and forced down the darkest of the garden paths. A foul-smelling cloth stifled my cry of alarm. As I struggled against my two attackers, my ears were filled with the sound of Lady Alice’s light, mocking laughter.

 

**45\. Lose**

Swimming was beyond me. I could barely keep both Holmes and myself afloat. My shoulder was nearly useless, certainly so for swimming, but I could just manage to keep Holmes’ lolling head braced against it, his mouth scarcely above the fetid water. I used all my other limbs to half-float on my back, thrashing ceaselessly to keep us from drowning.

I could barely feel my wounds anymore. Dizziness was irrelevant when water was all I could see.

Exhausted, my consciousness narrowed to one idea. I would not lose him to the river. The Thames would have to take me too.


	10. 3/22/2011

 

**46\. Defeat**

“That is an interesting question, isn’t it?” Lady Alice regarded me with a faint smile on her face, those famous eyes gone cold and hard as ice. “You want to know what has become of your friend Dr. Watson. And yet you clearly chose to follow me here, rather than pursue his trail. I wonder why?” She lifted her chin. “But that is beside the point. I might have information that you want. And you most certainly have something that **_I_** want.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Had I allowed my assumptions and arrogance to drag me to defeat?

 

**47\. Fail**

“You seem very certain of yourself, Lady Alice, but I believe you have overplayed your hand,” I said glibly, doing my best to look calm as my mind raced. What had I done? Where had I gone wrong?

Looking back, I recognized the assumption that had caused my entire chain of logic to fail. I had assumed that Watson was her next target. I had never anticipated that he might be her _decoy_. A decoy and a distraction designed expressly for me.

It had worked to a degree, though crime had trumped companionship at the crisis. But at what cost?

 

**48\. Choke**

“I know exactly what cards I hold. And I am not an unreasonable woman. The Honourable Leonard Grey wants me to elope with him. I want to do so without any interference from you. And you want to know your friend’s whereabouts.” Lady Alice smiled without any warmth. “We can all have what we want, Mr. Holmes.”

I shook my head. “I cannot leave Grey to your nonexistent mercies.”

“What do you care for him? Why didn’t you follow after your friend as I intended…?” She broke off abruptly, seeing something behind me that made her choke on her words.

 

**49\. Murder**

There’s no shortage of reasons why someone might want to murder Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If, God forbid, we found his assassinated body some morning, we’d hardly know where to start looking. Half the criminals in London want his blood. There’s more than one toff who’d sleep better at night knowing Mr. Holmes was silenced, too. He knows a lot of secrets, and that’s never safe.

But hearing him tick off Dr. Watson, his client, and me all within the same sentence, I honestly think it’s his habitual arrogance that’s going to provoke someone into trying to kill him one day.

 

**50\. Crawl**

Time slowed to a crawl as I took in my friend’s disheveled hair, rumpled, stained clothes, and swiftly-blackening eye. All pointed to some wild adventure, but there was nothing but calm certainty in his gaze as he looked at Lady Alice. “The answer is quite simple, my lady,” he told her. His voice was unusually rough, but there was a gentle twinkle in his eye as he glanced over at me. “Holmes followed you because he trusted that I could manage for myself.”

My throat tightened. “And as always, my dear Watson, my confidence in you has been fully justified.”

 


	11. 3/29/2011

**51\. Shackles**

I came awake with a gasp that immediately turned into horrible, wracking coughs. Each seizure drove fresh spikes of agony through my already-splitting skull. For an interminable interval, I could not breathe, or think, or do anything but suffer. Finally the fit eased, and my mind came awake, shaking off the shackles of injury and fatigue.

_Where was I?_

The answer was apparent almost as soon as I thought of the question. I was unquestionably on a small ship, one packed to the rails with wet, shivering people.

 _Survivors_.

_The explosion!_

Horror seized me as memory returned. _Where was Watson?_

 

**52\. Prison**

He is restless again.

I can hear him tossing and turning, occasionally crying out softly, half-mumbled words that make no real sense. I could wake him, temporarily free him from the cruel prison of his dreams. It would solve the immediate problem. He would try to smile. His voice, when he thanked me, would shake just slightly with the emotions he tries so hard not to show: pain, embarrassment, grief. His cheeks would flush with mortification.

And he would not sleep again tonight, and would face tomorrow’s torment that much more exhausted.

It is time to try a different tactic.

 

**53\. Alley**

“Good morning, Watson,” Holmes called as he emerged from his room.

“’Morning.” I saw that he had a towel beneath his arm. “I say, before you…”

“Not now, my dear fellow. I overslept a trifle, and Gregson expects me at the Yard within the hour.”

“But Holmes, I must tell you…”

“It can wait ten minutes.” He vanished into the bathing-room. The pipes gurgled as he started the water.

A second later I heard the most god-awful alley-cat caterwaul when the cold water hit him. “I tried to warn you that the boiler was out,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

 

**54\. Rope**

“Mr. Holmes!”

The man froze halfway up the stairs. He turned to face me, looking as if butter would not melt in his mouth. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked innocently.

“I should like a word with you.”

“Of course, my dear lady. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what’s become of the last two teapots I brought to your sitting-room.”

Mr. Holmes started babbling some folderol, probably hoping to distract me. But I have not been Mr. Holmes’ landlady all these years for nothing. Give him enough rope, and Mr. Holmes will hang himself every time.

 

**55\. Injection**

“Steady on, Holmes. Keep leaning on me.”

“Watson.” I couldn’t see my friend’s face in the darkness, but I could hear the weakness in his voice and sense the tremors wracking his frame. “This is futile. You must leave me and go for help on your own.”

“Nonsense.” I knew as well as he that I’d never find him again in the dark mists of this blasted heath. I ignored my own injuries and tightened my hold on him. A second gleam of light joined the first in the distance, giving me a much-needed injection of hope. “We’re nearly there.”

 


	12. 4/5/2011

 

**56\. Instrument**

There are days, I must confess, where I cannot help but wonder at how Holmes perceives me and my role. Dark days, sometimes, as gloomy and leaden as London weather in November. On those days, I fear I am nothing more than an instrument, as much as his violin, or his common-place books, or (God help me) his cocaine. Something he uses to express himself, a walking reference, an amusement – but in the end, nothing more than another object to be picked up and discarded at a whim.

“I am here to be used,” I say, but is that all?

 

**57\. Dog**

My Watson is deceptively simple. On the surface he appears nothing more than the average English gentleman: stolid, unimaginative, good-natured, and conventional. His adventuresome life has done little to mark him outwardly, his injuries notwithstanding.

The casual observer never sees the ghosts of war that dog his steps and haunt his slumbers, or hears the pawky humor that laces his words, or appreciates the sheer courage and tenacity with which he overcomes any obstacle. Others do not recognize the depths of loyalty, warmth, and caring in his sterling soul.

I know these things, and I know how lucky I am.

 

**58\. Horse**

I grew up around horses, so that’s how I think of them.

Mr. Holmes reminds me of a Thoroughbred: showy, all nervous energy and explosive speed and fractious spirit. And like a horse, you can lead him to water (or luncheon), but you cannot make him drink or eat or rest, no matter how much his body might need it.

Dr. Watson is, bless him, much more like a mule. Utilitarian, untiring, ordinary, eats his oats when he should, rarely makes a fuss over anything. Easy to overlook and take for granted. But should you rouse his temper – watch out!

 

**59\. Snake**

A flash of light startled me into greater alertness. I half-craned my head upwards, trying to raise it without sinking myself and Holmes. I couldn’t hold the posture for long, but I managed to catch a glimpse of a boat, not too far distant but travelling away from us. Some aboard held lanterns aloft, calling out while searching for survivors. Others used arms and boat-hooks to pull sodden figures over the rail.

With what seemed a monumental effort, I managed to snake my good arm up just long enough to splash it down with some force, trying to attract attention.

 

**60\. Bed**

I thought I heard a shout through water-clogged ears. I could not look. My movement had dislodged Holmes, and he slipped beneath the Thames. Dragging him up took nearly all of my remaining strength.

Hands came from nowhere, reaching out to help, but too high above us to grasp. With a last, desperate effort, I shoved Holmes towards them, forcing his limp body upwards. The same movement drove me under.

Water closed over my face.

Holmes’ weight vanished, and I sank, too spent to find the surface. I drifted downwards toward the dark river-bed. My last thought was of him.

 


	13. 4/12/2011

**61\. Poker**

I have seen Holmes face down criminals without betraying an ounce of concern. I have witnessed him refuse the demands of lords and politicians, never showing a trace of emotion. I have watched him stand calm and resolute in the face of danger, mayhem, and destruction.

He is not, however, proof against everything.

“Let me be perfectly clear, madam.” Holmes said to the fussy matron who stood in our sitting room, her back poker-straight. His words were courteous, but I could see the strain in his clenched jaw. “I _will not_ take your case. I do not find missing felines.”

 

**62\. Acid**

Mr. Holmes is an impatient man. Slow him down or get in his way, and you’re likely to find yourself on the wrong side of his acid tongue. It doesn’t matter who you are: I’ve seen him dress down beggars and titled lords with equal venom.

In fact, I’d have bet two weeks’ pay that he’d never hold back for anyone. That is, until the day I saw him swerve round, open his mouth, and then freeze as he saw Dr. Watson. Not a word did he say about the doctor’s limp-slowed pace. He merely offered his friend his arm.

 

**63\. Target**

Gents is generally stupid, and this bloke weren’t no exception. He walked down the street, payin’ no attention at all that I could see. Certain he didn’t see me, waitin’ against the wall, jest ready to lighten his pockets.

Mebbe he didn’t, but summat else did. I felt a hand grab me collar, and found myself yanked into the alley. Mean green eyes bored into my own. “Don’t ya even think it,” Wiggins hissed.

“’Oi! What gives?” I snarled in return.

“That’s Dr. Watson, you daft idjit, and you don’t lay a finger on him, _ever_. Find yerself another target.”

 

**64\. Fire**

I wracked my hazy memory, every nerve-end feeling on fire. I remembered Watson, injured and half-conscious, falling into the water. I remembered jumping in after him. And then…nothing. Utter blankness, although from my sopping garments, my aching head, and my congested lungs, I could deduce that I had nearly drowned. But all this told me only of my own survival, not his.

I staggered to my feet, determined to start searching. If I had been saved, Watson must have been too. Sparks danced in my vision. I lost my balance and almost fell, but strong arms caught me from behind.

 

**65\. River**

“Easy, mate,” a rough voice rumbled as I regained my balance. “Ye’re awake now, mayhap, but none ready to move.”

I forced my eyes to focus on the man helping me to stand. He was dressed in the rough garb of a working waterman, but was every bit as drenched as I. “My friend,” I gasped, words tripping over my tongue. “He fell into the water – he was in the river with me – he must be here, where is he?”

Something in the grave, gentle expression on the waterman’s face froze my tongue. “A friend indeed. He saved your life.”

 


	14. 4/19/2011

**66\. Water**

_Of course Watson saved my life_ , I thought muzzily. _Please God, not at the cost of his own._ I shuddered violently, my usual calm in tatters. I could not speak, but the waterman appeared to understand me anyway. He scrutinized my face and nodded once. “Aye, I know. I had a mate like that once. So when I saw yer friend go under the water whilst hoisting ye to safety, and not come up again…”

 _No! No no no no_ …

“…I dove in after him.”

Words like a lifeline, dragging me back to sanity. The waterman sighed. “Come wi’ me.”

 

**67\. Stone**

I followed him through the press of soaked survivors packing the deck, outwardly stone-faced, but inwardly trembling. The waterman’s words had reawakened hope in my breast, but his somber demeanor nearly smothered it. For once in my life I could not anticipate, dared not deduce, shunned speculation. Dread dogged every step. My mind seemed limited to two phrases: _John Watson_ and _please_.

Without warning, the waterman ducked beneath a low doorway into the ship’s small cabin. Steps up led to the wheel; steps down to the boiler-room, now jammed with prostrate, still forms. The sudden warmth made me dizzy.

_Watson!_

 

**68\. Iron**

It was terribly dark. Most of the lamps were missing from their wall-hooks. In the dull red light from the furnace’s open hatch, I could scarcely distinguish one body from the next. And yet my eyes immediately latched onto one particular form, drawn like iron filings to a magnet.

I do not remember how I got to him. I hope I did not step on anyone. I heard the waterman leave, but my entire attention remained riveted to the clammy, limp body I pulled into my lap. His breath ghosted against my damp skin.

“Watson. I’m here. Stay with me.”

 

**69\. Wood**

How does he do it?

How does he turn an ordinary pen, a simple instrument of wood and steel, into a conduit for his thoughts and feelings? How does he change ink into a channel for his very soul?

How do I find the words to express what it was like, one hand stained with the blood I tried to keep inside him, the other feeling desperately for every faint, laboring heartbeat, every water-logged breath?

How to impart all that haunts me even yet?

I cannot.

Absorbed in the fight for Watson’s life, I never even learned the waterman’s name.

 

**70\. Bullet**

It has been weeks since our misadventure. Our near-drowning left no visible scars, unlike the chandelier. Fortunately the new marks are hardly noticeable amongst the scars left by the Jezail bullet.

Overall, our outer damage was light. On the inside, though…

Holmes watches me like a hawk, even now. Our days are bright, but his nights are shadowed by remembered horror. As are mine.

However, near-death brought other changes.

We know – not just believe, but _know_ – what we would give for each other. And we know even better how to value what we have in the time we are given.

 


	15. 4/26/2011

 

**71\. Dagger**

They are the days that I dread, although I will never admit it.

The days where _everything_ is pain.

The days where every word, every sound, every sensation, every _thought_ is a dagger, slicing me with a million invisible cuts, leaving me bleeding out from the inside.

The days where all the colors of the world tangle into puddles and drain away.

The days where not even my violin can sing me out of my blackness.

The days where I deliberately stay in the sitting-room, for the only thing tolerable in all the world sits in the armchair beside mine.

 

**72\. Poison**

“Bonbon?”

“Trivially easy to tamper with.”

“Marzipan?”

“A perfect masking agent for poison, specifically arsenic.”

“Toffee?”

“Splendid for embedding ground glass. The same is true of spun sugar and hard candies.”

“Fruit cordial?”

“Really, Watson. Those are even easier to tamper with than bonbons. The liquefied centers conceal so many textural ambiguities.”

“Candied violets?”

“Do you have any idea how many dried bits of toxic flora look identical to the untrained eye, even without the masking coating of sugar crystals?”

“Nougat?”

“…Yes, thank you. Terrible for the teeth, of course, but I never have been able to resist the stuff.”

 

**73\. Rifle**

I sighed as Baker Street came into view. It had been a _very_ long day. I wanted nothing more than a quiet evening next to the fire.

“Watson!” Holmes’ eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “My dear chap, you’re just in time. I’ve managed to secure two tickets to tonight’s Wagner recital. We just have time to make the first seating at Simpson’s.”

I thought of the fire and my book. Then I thought of Holmes. This was the most animation he’d shown in days.

I smiled and hastily adjourned to my room to rifle through my bureau for a clean collar.

 

**74\. Club**

It was a typical evening at my club, which is to say, a typical evening. I rarely depart from my schedule. I sit in my chair at the Diogenes, and read my usual papers, and have my usual post-prandial brandy.

Half an hour before my usual departure, the porter approached my chair. “A man to see you in the Stranger’s Room,” he whispered.

It could only be Sherlock. I rose from my chair, displeased.

I did _not_ expect to see Dr. Watson, alone. His tense face told me without words that this would not be a typical evening after all.

 

**75\. Whip**

Even for London, the fog was extraordinarily foul that night. So it remains a complete mystery to me how they spotted Hopkins. One moment we were creeping towards the dilapidated shack from two directions, him with his constables and I with my Watson, silent and invisible as ghosts. The next, gunfire erupted, while dark shapes slipped through the sudden light of the open door. They scattered in all directions.

“Hurry, Watson!” I called as I glimpsed one distinctive form whip around the corner and vanish into the mist. I darted after him, confident that my Boswell was right behind me.

 


	16. 5/3/2011

 

**76\. Late Nights**

As a boy, I loved the early morning hours.

As a man, my life has been shaped by late nights.

Late nights as a soldier, watching, waiting.

Late nights as a doctor, tending the ill and injured, dicing with Death for the lives of my patients.

Most of all, late nights as the biographer and partner of Sherlock Holmes. Nights spent pursuing criminals. Nights spent protecting those who would otherwise come to grief. Nights spent at his side, a shield against those would do him harm – including himself.

I see the dawn rarely now, but I do not miss it.

 

**77\. Snowstorm**

I emerged from my bedroom, yawning and thinking about breakfast and a hot cup of tea. I reached the sitting-room and stopped, blinking.

Either I needed the tea more than I thought, or it was _snowing_ inside our sitting-room.

I looked again, and determined that the snowstorm was in fact drifting, eddying clouds of eiderdown. Fragments of feathers covered nearly every surface and filled the air.

Holmes saw me and froze, scraps of a pillow in his hands. “Watson – “

“Don’t tell me,” I said wearily, hearing the stairs creak. “Explain it to Mrs. Hudson.”

I went back to bed.

 

**78\. Thunderstorm**

Outside, an unseasonable thunderstorm battered London, pummeling it with torrential rain and hail, blinding it with lightning flashes, deafening it with thunder.

Inside 221B Baker Street, the fireplace blazed, the coal piled on with a generous hand. The gaslights lent a cozy glow regardless of the lightning’s pyrotechnics. Hot tea steamed in china cups, and the smell of freshly-baked biscuits filled the room.

And by the hearth, Holmes continued playing his violin, conducting his ‘experiment on its soothing effects’ on six ragged, damp, biscuit-fed, tea-laced street arabs huddled contentedly near his feet, while Watson and Mrs. Hudson looked on, smiling.

 

**79\. House Fire**

The term “fiery temper” is poetic but hardly precise. The phrase covers a whole range of possibilities. I have met men whose tempers are best compared to gas lights – easily lit, easily controlled, easily snuffed. Other men’s more closely resemble coal fires, smoldering along in the ashes of their own feelings, scarcely noticeable to the casual eye, until a sudden flare-up surprises everyone. Others are volcanic, erupting rarely but unpredictably and unleashing untold destruction.

Watching Watson’s stiff, retreating back, I wondered if my own drug-fueled temper was akin to a house fire, burning down my only home around my ears.

 

**80\. Accident**

A criminal mastermind robbed me of my best friend.

An accident took the life of his namesake, less than a year after his birth.

I believe it was the lingering effects of that grief as much as hemorrhage that stole my wife from me, minutes after she gave birth to our stillborn daughter.

I tend the ill every day, and yet I am left untouched. My health remains sound.

I am a soldier. I soldier on, not reasoning why.*

I am a doctor. I care for others – but none are left that care for me.

I cannot cure my desolation.

 

 

*“Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do or die.”

\--Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Charge of the Light Brigade

 


	17. 5/10/2011

 

**81\. Abduction**

“There’s a concert at the Garden tonight.”

No reply.

“Or if you like, Signora Ottavi is giving a recital of various arias from Verdi.”

A snort of disdain reached my ears.

“What about the latest exhibition at the British Museum?”

A bored grunt.

I was at my wits’ end. I found myself wishing for a nice abduction, or at the very least a clever bit of extortion. I would never wish ill upon my fellow man, of course, but at the same time I desperately wanted a case, any case, to distract my increasingly morose companion from his despondent lassitude.

 

**82\. Falling**

The train rocked gently. Outside, city scenes gradually changed to open countryside. Or at least so I inferred, for I could not see them through the drawn blinds. I had told Watson that I wanted dark and quiet in order to concentrate on the case that sent us hurtling northward.

This was only partially the truth.

I had heard him last night, and the night before. Even if I had not, the fatigue and strain of his disturbed nights showed plain upon his worn features. 

Watson sighed, falling asleep at last, his lolling head coming to rest upon my shoulder.

 

**83\. Beating**

“I must be in Mrs. Hudson’s good graces,” Holmes observed after our landlady left the sitting-room. “She’s going to serve meringues with tea.”

I blinked in astonishment. “How do you know that?”

“The way she held her wrist when carrying away the luncheon tray. The muscles are unusually tired. The only time she shows that sort of fatigue is when she has been beating copious quantities of egg whites. She dislikes making meringues because of that, but she knows I favor them. Therefore…”

“Remarkable.” I failed to mention that I had specifically asked her for them. Holmes needed fattening up.

 

**84\. Dark Alley**

Frustration surged, and I briefly considered striking the nearest brick wall, just to relieve my tension.

Not only had I lost my quarry in this twisting, dark alley – the latest in a series of them – but I’d lost Watson, too. I strained every nerve, but I could see nothing in the dark, foggy confines, hear nothing but the panting of my own breath and the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Snarling, I retraced my steps. Surely Watson was close behind. I found Hopkins and his men, but not my friend.

Belatedly, I started to worry. Where was he?

 

**85\. Exhaustion**

I collapsed into my armchair, exhaustion dragging at all my limbs. Across the fireside, Holmes sprawled in a similar state.

“Holmes?” My voice sounded flat and lifeless to my ears.

“Yes, Watson?”

“Do you want a drink?”

“Not so much so that I’m willing to move.”

“Me either.”

The fire burned lower in the grate.

“Holmes?”

“What now, dear fellow?”

“Are we getting too old for this sort of thing?”

“Nonsense,” my friend answered around a prodigious yawn. “We’re both in our prime.”

“My head agrees with you. My body, however…”

“I know. Perhaps a short vacation is in order.”

 


	18. 5/17/2011

****

**86\. Death**

Death marked my friend before I ever knew him, scarring his flesh indelibly and changing his career. Indeed, I would not have met him otherwise. Waltzes with the Reaper during our cases left further reminders, but overall he did not alter.

Looking at him now, I gasp at the changes Death has wrought in three fraught years: the lines around the eyes, the silver at the temples, the weight of grief dragging at every movement. It is suddenly easier to stand – slump – a foot shorter, as my disguise requires.

Death is often cruel, but no crueler than I have been.

 

**87\. Revenge**

I am a patient woman. However, my lodgers are enough to try the patience of a saint. Strange visitors at all hours, violin music, and pipe smoke so thick it could kill an elephant – not to mention the broken dishes.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. I have served quite a few cold meals at Baker Street. But when I woke to find Mr. Holmes in my kitchen at two in the morning, I simply shooed him away and made up the hot and cold compresses myself. He was far too worried about the doctor to scold.

 

**88\. Collapse**

I had been feeling less than spry lately, true, but I thought little of it. I was halfway up the stairs when I came over dizzy.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Dr. Watson’s alarmed voice sounded somewhere behind me, but whatever came next was lost to darkness. When my senses returned, I found myself in my bed, a cold cloth on my forehead.

“...no obvious cause for the collapse; it’s likely heat exhaustion,” Dr. Watson spoke quietly.

“She’ll be all right?” Mr. Holmes sounded anxious, and I realized with shock that he was worried about _me_.

“Of course. We’ll make sure of it.”

 

**89\. Knockout**

I removed my reading glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to relieve my headache – or perhaps magically transform the words in front of me into sense.

“Watson? What is it?”

“Oh, it’s these proposed changes for publication in the United States. My editor says I must modify my stories for that audience, but I don’t understand half of what he writes. Change pistol to shooting iron? Describe Irene Adler as a knockout?” I shook my head, bewildered.

“Never mind, dear fellow.” Holmes rested one gnarled, rheumatic hand on my shoulder. “American is a foreign language, after all.”

 

**90\. Self-defense**

To hear him tell it, Mr. Holmes has taught himself many forms of self-defense over the years. Foreign things with fancy names, like baritsu and savate, not to mention good plain English boxing. He’s certainly handy with his fists.

But if you ask any of us at the Yard, his greatest form of self-preservation walks beside him in the form of a mild-mannered ex-Army doctor. Particularly since Mr. Holmes gave up carrying his hair-trigger in favor of Dr. Watson’s service revolver. The doctor is an accurate shot – unlike Mr. Holmes. We’re all safer now that he doesn’t carry a gun.

 


	19. 5/24/2011

 

**91\. Defense of another**

It did not surprise me to learn that one of Watson’s old wounds had been sustained in defense of another. Indeed, it would not have startled me to hear that _both_ his old wounds had been the result of such selfless bravery. Heroism is intrinsic to my friend, as natural to him as breathing.

I understood this, and yet I did not infer the logical conclusion until my Watson lay bleeding in my arms. I already knew he would risk his life to save another, but I was utterly _terrified_ to realize that he might well die in my defense.

 

**92\. Illness contracted by a patient**

“You’re uncommonly silent tonight, Watson.”

“I’m sorry, Holmes. I suppose I am not good company.”

“You are always good company, dear fellow, but what troubles you?”

“I am preoccupied by a strange illness contracted by a patient of mine.”

“Indeed, I had guessed it might be something of the sort. Your chequebook remains in my drawer, and you have not been anywhere near Thurston and his compulsive betting habits in weeks.”

“True. I have hardly set foot in my club this whole month.”

“What is so strange about this illness?”

“It is entirely self-inflicted – and it is slowly destroying you.”

 

**93\. Illness contracted during a case**

“Atchoo!”

“Bless you, Holmes. Drink your tea, it will help.”

“I will not. Atchoo! Watson, I cannot believe that you – atchoo! – turned away – atchoo! – the Duchess!”

“I could hardly admit her, Holmes.”

“Nonsense – atchoo! And to tell her I was – atchoo! – indisposed, that I – atchoo! – was suffering from a minor illness contracted during a case – atchoo!“

“What would you have had me tell her instead? That the world’s only consulting detective, the man she crossed a continent to see, is laid low by an allergy to lilacs? Particularly when she was drenched with that self-same scent?”

“Atchoo! Point taken, Wa-atchoo!”

 

**94\. Accidental injury**

If you’d asked me early on, I would have described Mr. Holmes as proud and cold. It took an accidental injury for me to discover otherwise.

I was just about to fetch the tea-tray when I heard a commotion at the front door. I opened it to find Mr. Holmes with one arm around Dr. Watson, supporting most of his friend’s weight.

“What happened?” I cried.

“A fall on the ice,” the doctor gasped. “Nothing serious – “

Perhaps not serious to a doctor, but from the way Mr. Holmes fussed, his friend’s well-being was a very serious matter to _him_.

 

**95\. Intentional injury**

Holmes has often commented on my “pawky” humor. Many doctors learn this trait, and every soldier discovers the bracing effect of a well-timed jest or wry observation. It is one of the most basic forms of self-defense. While Holmes would never do me intentional injury, I often need protection all the same. The fire of his intense focus frequently scorches anyone nearby. The force of his black moods can bruise the most stalwart soul. My humor shields me from these things, armors me against the worst of his outbursts.

And sometimes I make Holmes laugh, thereby protecting him from himself.

 


	20. 5/31/2011

**96\. caliginous -[](http://autumnatmidnite.livejournal.com/profile)[ **autumnatmidnite**](http://autumnatmidnite.livejournal.com/)  **

As I sat down to begin my morning’s work, I noticed a paper sitting on top of my desk that had not been there the night before. I began to read:

‘The miscreants attempted to conceal themselves in the caliginous depths of the alley, but they neglected to account for the thin layer of argillaceous earth from the nearby brickworks deposited by the prevailing breeze. It was a simple enough matter to discern…’

I set down the paper. “Holmes, what _is_ this?”

“Oh, I thought I would try writing up one of our cases. What do you think of it?”

 

**97. quintessence, ubiquitous –[](http://goldvermilion87.livejournal.com/profile)[ **goldvermilion87**](http://goldvermilion87.livejournal.com/)  **

Another morning, another paper on my desk. I sighed inwardly. Over in his armchair, Holmes smoked his pipe, apparently lost in his own thoughts, but I had no doubt that he was watching my every move like a hawk. I did my best to muster visible enthusiasm as I began to read:

‘My prospective European client held both title and fortune, but neither provided him any dignity. His ubiquitous address was the quintessence of servility, as if by sheer flattery he could blind my eyes to his obvious guilt…’

“Holmes,” I sighed, “do you _want_ to be sued for libel?”

 

**98\. ponce –[](http://monkeybard.livejournal.com/profile)[ **monkeybard**](http://monkeybard.livejournal.com/)  **

Over the years I had grown accustomed to seeing Holmes in a variety of outlandish guises: an old woman, bent with age; a wizened bookseller; a bookish young clergyman; a battered but proud professional pugilist. I had thought myself inured to any further surprises on that front. That afternoon proved me wrong.

I entered our sitting-room and stopped dead, literally shocked speechless by the waifish, languid creature lounging upon our settee. Dark hair fashionably disheveled, luridly-colored satin waistcoat gleaming between his expensively-cut coat and trousers... Holmes was almost, but not quite, a caricature of a ponce.

“New case?” I squeaked.

 

**99\. – dim, miss –[](http://scotlandyarder.livejournal.com/profile)[ **scotlandyarder**](http://scotlandyarder.livejournal.com/)  **

The sitting-room door closed behind our visitor, leaving Holmes, Lestrade, and myself staring blankly at one another. For once, none of us seemed able to find anything to say.

“Well,” Lestrade ventured at last, only to fall silent again.

“Yes,” Holmes said mendaciously.

“I have to say,” I started, struggling for words. “…um, you saw it, too?”

“Of course.” Holmes started to regain his usual sharpness. “She was either the best actress ever born, or…”

“…she’s the most dim miss in all of London,” Lestrade finished.

Someone snorted, and then we all nearly fell out of our chairs, laughing uncontrollably.

 

**100\. infinite –[](http://spacemutineer.livejournal.com/profile)[ **spacemutineer**](http://spacemutineer.livejournal.com/)  **

“Retire?!?” I stared blankly at Holmes. “Now?”

“At the end of the month, yes. Times have changed. I am not as young as I was, and these new criminals favor violence over cunning. There’s no intellectual challenge in it anymore.”

“But what shall you do?” I cried. _What shall I do?_ I wondered silently. No more Baker Street, no more Mrs. Hudson, no more cases, no more _Holmes…_

“Not just me, I hope.” Holmes’ cheeks flushed faintly. “I had rather hoped _we_ might retire. As for what we shall do with ourselves…oh my dear fellow, the possibilities are almost infinite.”


End file.
